Anniversary Post

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Many of you might not know this, but today is an anniversary for me. One year ago, I was involved in a horseback riding accident that resulted in a concussion and four fractures along the spinous process of my L4 vertebra (that’s the part that looks like a stegosaurus ridge). I was over-confident and rash, and yes, after a year I’ll go ahead and say it—Black Mustang Ranch was negligent. They had no business pulling a notoriously “hot” horse off of one ride and immediately putting her on another one, especially not as warm as that day was, and I had no business getting on her. We were both to blame, and about twenty minutes into the ride Mae West took off for home and refused to stop. We galloped down the trail, and apparently I held on for a good long while until she took a sharp turn to the left and I kept going forward. I say “apparently” because I don’t remember anything but the vague sensation of going too fast and not being able to stop.

The reality of that day is that I could have died. A few feet to either side and I would have hit the trees at pretty much thirty-five miles an hour, if not faster, and I could have been killed or paralyzed. It was a traumatic experience that didn’t really hit me until the next spring, when the new session of SpiritHorse brought me a student who had been paralyzed almost from the neck down after a riding accident. I pretty much used up every ounce of luck that I had to dodge that result, and today I want to look back at the last year and talk about everything that I’ve lost and gained. It’s all been a little crazy, to say the least.

What I lost: My mobility for over three months. For the first five weeks or so I was in a lot of pain and I had to give up every good physical thing in my life, including horses and taekwondo. I also lost the healthy progress that I had made since the beginning of last summer.

What I gained: New perspective and experience. That awful accident taught me a few lessons that might save my life one day, and it gave me a fresh appreciation for the life that I do have.

What I lost: A good chunk of my fearless nature. I have never, ever confessed this to anyone, but I’m going to do it now: The idea of cantering scares me. Lindsay and I did a lot of trail riding at Marshall Creek this past spring, and we passed the skills test for the advanced ride pretty quickly. I didn’t tell her, but that first advanced ride we took terrified me until I realized that Thor, the Belgian draft that I was riding, was so huge that his trot was the same speed as the other horses’ canter. That was one of many reasons that he became my favorite at Marshall Creek.

What I gained: Real courage, in a way. I kept on riding, even though the signal for a canter made me anxious every time. The day that a wrangler asked if we wanted to canter down a particularly winding path rather than a straightaway, I asked for tips instead of saying no out of fear. And you know what? I had a blast. That was one of my favorite rides. And a few weeks later when it was just me and Thor by the lakeside, I pushed him up into a canter and let him take me flying. It was like charging into battle. I bullied my way past the fear and chose to find joy instead.

What I lost: My job. In January I was let go from Banfield for signing my mom’s new puppy up on one of my free Wellness Plans. On the way out, I couldn’t stop smiling. And let’s be honest; with my manager about to transfer to a different hospital, me and my attitude wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway.

What I gained: The best job that I have ever had. SpiritHorse hired me about a month later, and I was finally able to devote full-time hours to the place that I loved so much.

What I lost: My entire comfortable world. I had family, friends, horses, my favorite coffee shop, bro dates on Thursdays, my cat, and a good life in a good city. Most of these aspects have simply been misplaced; only one is gone for good.

What I gained: A broader world. I have more friends, a gorgeous new city, my favorite restaurant, the occasional performance onstage, pub quiz on Mondays, trips around Italy and Croatia, and the singular experience of laying topless in a hamami in Istanbul because no one else gave a sh*t.

What I lost: My dad. This is the only time that I will ever discuss him on a virtual medium. He died on February 2nd, and it was our decision. He was in pain, with massive organ failure and the slim chance of a few more weeks or even a month hooked up to machines at all times, so Mom and I said enough. We said it, the both of us together; we made the decision to let him go. Afterward, I remember staring at a purple square on the privacy curtain and thinking, If I can just stare at that square, just for a little bit longer, I’ll make it. It’ll be okay. Because this wasn’t the kind of grief that quietly leaks out; it was the kind that howls and screams and beats things until one or the other of them breaks. And I did it. I made it all the way home with only one or two tears, because my younger sister had just lost her dad and my mom had lost her soulmate. I’m going to take a shower, I said as we wandered from one room to the next in circles. I’m going to take a shower, and no matter what you hear, don’t come in.

There is nothing I could gain that would make the loss of my dad worth it. There’s no adventure that I could have, no friend I could make, and no man who could love me enough to balance out February 2nd, 2014. And you know what the real bitch of it is? The first thing he said to me three years ago when I came back from England was Don’t ever go so far away again.

I kept my promise.

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We’re all either destined or doomed to become our parents, and you know what? I’m totally cool with that. My dad was a motorcycle-riding, softball-playing gentle giant, and my mom is a crisis-fixing, diamonds- and Coach-wearing badass. If this last year has shown me anything it’s that I have the blood of the Giant and the blood of the Dragon Lady in me, and the world had better watch out.

Pasta kisses,

Kelsey

The Saga of the Creepy Chianti

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WARNING: This post is rated PG-13 for frank discussions of sexuality and brief language (probably).

This entry is going to be different from the rest. It’s the story of my recent interaction with a young Italian guy (nicknamed the Chianti because I’m nice, but not that nice) and his complete bafflement at hearing the word “No.” I want this to be a discussion of social norms and expectations, and a warning to American women traveling abroad. I do want to clarify one thing before I begin: nothing damaging happened to me. I know a lot of people who care about me read this blog, and I just want everyone to know that I’m totally fine.

The story began a few weeks ago when the Chianti came in to the gallery where I work. He was kinda cute in a wan hipster way, but I cared more about his obvious passion for the artist’s work than his looks. While we were discussing the art in depth he snuck a few glances down at my chest, but I didn’t really mind; in fact, it was a pleasant surprise when he invited me out for drinks after work. We ended up going to his apartment because a lot of the bars outside the tourist areas close early during the summer. I agreed to this because I felt comfortable with him, and because I had my daddy’s knife in my back pocket. I was right to take his interest in the paintings seriously, because he lived in a penthouse apartment with a view of the Duomo. I’ll admit, the Chianti brought his A-game to this whole courting thing: I’m talking red wine, playing guitar for me, discussing our travels, the works. So when he asked if he could kiss me, I said yes. It was sort of like kissing a hungry vacuum cleaner, but what can I say? It was nice to feel wanted.

I’ll spare you the details. We talked for a while, we kissed some more, and eventually he wanted to get more serious. I shut him down immediately, telling him in no uncertain terms that all of my clothes would be staying on. At first he respected that, but eventually he tried to convince me to change my mind. After a couple of hours I left, promising to call him the next night when I was off work, but when it rolled around I was exhausted and had no interest in walking half an hour to his place. I messaged him and explained how tired I was, and that my roommate would be gone until late if he wanted to come by. His counter-offer? He would come over if I would show him my tits.

Pictured: the only boobies of mine that he would ever be seeing.

I just laughed and laughed. At one point I stopped long enough to explain to him that that’s not how it works, and we spent the next hour discussing the things he wanted to do with me and why it wasn’t going to happen. This is really the issue that I wanted to broach when I decided to write this post: the Chianti was honestly baffled by my refusal. Didn’t I like him? Didn’t I want to feel pleasure? Why? Why not?

At first I answered him: Yes, I liked him, but I didn’t know him and it wouldn’t give me pleasure to have sex with a stranger. And as for “why”—it was absolutely none of his business. I didn’t know him and I certainly didn’t trust him, but I didn’t owe him those explanations. All he needed to know was that my answer was no, and it wouldn’t change before he left on his month-long trip to Spain. Then he said something that really stuck with me: Some American girls do it.

Ladies, this is not a condemnation. It’s not a judgement. What you do with your body is your business, and you don’t owe anybody anything. This is purely a warning that a lot of foreign men see American women as easy, and they might try to take advantage of that. My roommate during this experience (let’s call her Amanda) was also seeing a guy during her short stay, and she had a similar discussion with him every time they spent time together. Over the past few months I’ve been verbally harassed on more than one occassion, and last week I was physically harassed by an old man. We’re talking a man easily in his sixties who brings newspapers by the gallery. Two days ago, while I was on my way home from a club, a guy completely changed directions so he could walk with me, even going so far as to put his arm around my shoulders even though I was clearly not interested. It wasn’t until I removed the offending arm that he took the hint and bailed. After all of this, I can’t even imagine what it’s like for women who are traditionally good-looking.

Pictured: what most of us think when you catcall.

Amanda and I were lucky in that our respective boys were only persistent and not outright aggressive, but we should not have to fucking consider ourselves lucky for that. The Chianti’s problem was his arrogance; maybe it was a combination of cultural norms and his obvious wealth, but he was not used to hearing the word “no.” Our brief fling ended when he told me that if I wouldn’t do anything “serious” with him, then he couldn’t see me. Maybe he expected me to cave when given such a drastic ultimatum. I mean, my answer should have been obvious, right? What else could I possibly say to that other than an enthusiastic “YES”?

Ha. I told him to get lost.

I’ll admit that the physical contact was nice, as was the attention before it went sour, but I am my mother’s daughter and I don’t respond well to manipulation attempts. This philosophy applies no matter where you are in the world: no one has the right to guilt or coerce you into doing something you don’t want to do. With few exceptions, Americans talk about the treatment of women in America or they discuss extreme examples from the rest of the world like genital mutilation or the complete absence of women’s rights, but I think we’ve neglected that middle ground: how women are treated in other developed countries. In some ways it’s an improvement (paid maternity leave, for example), but the day-to-day treatment doesn’t seem to be that different. If anything, it’s worse.

Here’s a hint that bears repeating, boys: my body is mine to do with as I please. It’s not your toy, it’s not your property, it’s not your entertainment. You do not have the right to put your arm around me, or walk so close to me that I’m tripping over you, or discuss in detail what you’d like to do to me. You have no right to me, no matter what I wear or how I act. Until the word “Yes” leaves my mouth, you treat me like the goddamn Arc of the Covenant.

Pictured: what will happen to the next guy who touches me without permission.

If you stuck it out to this point, thank you. I know this post is unusual given the rest of my blog, but it’s an issue that I wanted to discuss in the hope that female travelers will feel better prepared if they fly solo.

Until next time,

Kelsey

The Dalmatian Coast: Dubrovnik

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Despite Hvar’s orgasmically gorgeous beaches, Dubrovnik was really more my style. Old Town is brimming with history, and as the King’s Landing filming site for Game of Thrones it’s also a bit of a nerd mini-mecca. You can fly in directly, or catch a bus down from Split. PRO TIP: Always, always check how long your bus ride is supposed to take. I caught one from Split to Dubrovnik that was four hours long, but the return trip stopped in every little backwater town and gave me heart palpitations because I was trying to catch a flight back to Rome. Another PRO TIP is to have your passport handy, because you will pass very briefly through Bosnia on the way up and down. I didn’t mind the ride at all, mostly due to the countryside that we passed through, but also because I’m from Texas and we measure distance in hours.

My original hostel was in one of Dubrovnik’s northern bays, and after a good hour and a half of searching for it I was getting really pissed off. I literally walked the same three blocks about five times, desperately trying to make sense of their directions. I even called the hostel but the guy who answered was spectacularly unhelpful, so I took a deep breath, found a place with WiFi and Karlovačko (the only beer that I have ever genuinely enjoyed), and sat my happy butt down to find a new place to stay. Hostel Marker Dubrovnik Old Town was more expensive than my old place, but it was worth every penny and then some. It’s located less than a five minute walk from the Pile Gate, which is one of the main entrances into the Old Town, and it has fantastic access to the site where they filmed the Battle of Blackwater Bay as well as a great beach. The owner is an absolute dream and he will enthusiastically write suggestions for food and sightseeing all over your map. I really can’t say it enough: stay in this hostel.

My first afternoon in Dubrovnik was pretty relaxed; I thoroughly examined Blackwater Bay, including Fort Lovrijenac, which has spectacular views of both that bay and the one next door. I’m actually fairly certain that I would like to eventually be proposed to up there.

Future suitors, take note

Future suitors, kindly take note

I won’t bore you with the two hours that I spent making goo-goo eyes at the water. I met some hostel people and tagged along to the Argentina vs. Netherlands football game that night, because Europe. On the up side, I did get to geek out over Game of Thrones with Lena and the angry Canadian lobster whose name I have forgotten.

My favorite part of my stay was the next morning, and the weather had a hand in it. Great storm clouds were constantly circling, and when combined with the old stone battlements and the pounding sea below they made for some fantastic pictures, even if it did rain on me a few times. The one thing that you have to do in Dubrovnik is walk around the city walls. It’s a decently physical activity, and it’ll take about two hours, but it’s worth every minute. When you enter the Pile Gate, you’ll see a large fountain on your right; turn immediately to the left and follow the signs to the ticket office, and then head up the stairs to reach the top of the wall.  On the low end of the city you get fantastic views of the water, and as you move uphill all of Old Town is spread beneath you. From that vantage point, it’s easy to see more than a few broken buildings left over from the Siege of Dubrovnik in October of 1991. Most of the Old Town has been rebuilt, but at least half a dozen ruins were left standing as a sobering reminder of the war. Near the end of the walk along the walls, you have an opportunity to climb up to the top of an old fort on the walls, and I highly recommend it even though you’ll be exhausted.

As soon as you come off the walls, refill your water bottle at Big Onofrio’s fountain and then stop by the Franciscan Monastery on the left. It has a stunning central cloister and the world’s oldest still-operating pharmacy, not to mention murals on the inner walls. There’s a Dominican Monastery in the northeast corner of the city too, and they’re both fantastic places to slow down for a minute and just sit beneath the trees, listening to sounds echo off the cool white marble. I wandered down the Placa-Stradun, which is like Dubrovnik’s main boulevard, until I came to St. Blaise’s Church and the bell tower. If you turn left you’ll find the Dominican Monastery and a gate leading out of Old Town, and if you go right you’ll pass by the Rector’s Palace, which definitely deserves a look. It’s a beautiful historical building complete with prison cells and magistrate’s chambers. My favorite part was a photography exhibit from the Siege, located in the cells below the palace. One of the coolest things is that your ticket to the Rector’s Palace includes entry into a whole bunch of other places like the Maritime Museum on top of the city walls and the Ethnographic Museum.

Placa-Stradun

Placa-Stradun

For lunch, I kept going around the Rector’s Palace until I was in the old harbor, where I found Lokanda Peskarija, or Seafood Lokanda. It’s a fantastic restaurant with great views of the harbor and delicious seafood risotto, and the portions are huge! I could have easily split lunch with someone. About the time that I finished the rain really started to pour, so I just ordered a cappuccino and stayed put. A sweet French couple came under the awnings and tried to find a table nearby, and I invited them to sit with me since everywhere else was full. They were halfway into their meal when the rain suddenly stopped, so I grabbed my stuff and said goodbye before it could come back. Like in Split, the wet ground was appallingly slippery, so I walked around barefoot until it dried out.

By coincidence, my wandering took me right by Lena and her trio of six foot tall Swedish Vikings. They called each other the Tractor, the Waffle, and the Oracle, and I’m so glad that I’m not kidding about that last part; apparently the nicknames are similar to their real names, and I feel like I can’t stress enough that these are their names for each other. We walked back to the hostel together to collect James, the only living example of a cocaine-fueled monkey that I have ever had the pleasure to meet. James was wonderful, generous, and friendly, but he was also a force of nature. You just didn’t say “no” to James, and that’s how a few of us ended up drunk before 9 pm. We actually met one of the coolest cats in Dubrovnik because James liked his hair. I kid you not, this poor guy was sitting peacefully in a restaurant and James just sat down and started talking to him. Lena, the Vikings and I kept walking, and when we came back James had ordered dinner for himself and a beer for Cool Hair Guy. We joined them rather than fight the inevitable, and that’s how we met Andrej.

Dubrovnik’s cultural festival started that night, so after dinner (during which James threw his pizza over the restaurant’s balcony and the Tractor lost his water gun privileges) Rachel and I headed back into Old Town in time to catch an amazing Croatian band. Even though I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, the quality of the music was so high that it transcended language. I’m actually a bit desperate to learn the name of the band, because I can’t find their information on the festival’s website or Facebook page.

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Day Two in Dubrovnik was dedicated to wandering. Old Town is small enough that you can see most of it in a couple of days, and it’s more or less on a grid pattern so it’s pretty damn hard to get lost. I had passed by Gundulic’s Square several times, but that morning they had a farmer’s and artisan’s market. Since covered markets are high on my list of weaknesses, I took the time to walk through it and drool over the things that I wanted but shouldn’t buy. Behind the square is a large staircase that leads up to St. Ignatius Church, which has the oldest grotto in Europe. It’s gorgeously decorated anyway, but the grotto definitely makes it worth the short climb. There’s also a way up to Buza, a bar that’s situated on the Old Town wall; it’s a great place to watch the sunset, and a welcome relief if you’re walking the walls without water.

I stopped at Taj Mahal for lunch, which, in spite of its name, does not exclusively serve Indian food. This was the scene of one of the best meals that I have ever tasted: Ćevapi (or ćevapčići), a Balkan dish of minced sausages grilled and served in a flatbread taco with sides that can include onions and cottage cheese. I’ve had cheaper versions of this dish and they were okay, but Taj Mahal’s was heavenly. Like, I definitely heard a choir of angels each time I took a bite. My instinct was to fill my flatbread taco with the sausage and smother it in cheese and onions before eating it like a burger, but I thought that was just my barbarian side talking (seriously, take me to Medieval Times and watch the civilization flee from my eyes), so I cut the flatbread into strips and rolled the sausage in it. According to Lena, my barbarian instincts were correct and you are supposed to fill it up and mash it into your piehole; fine by me, I look forward to devouring Ćevapi the right way.

I visited the Ethnographic Museum for a while, and if you like mythology it’s worth a look, but the displays are mostly low-quality and the presentation was a bit sloppy. Don’t pay for it, but if you have a ticket from the Rector’s Palace and time to kill, go ahead and stop by. I thought about catching a boat to Lokrum Island, which came highly recommended by our hostel owner, but the weather was still touch-and-go. Since I was already in the harbor, I took a walk along the inside of the walls and noticed that people were disappearing around a corner. Being a curious sort, I followed them and discovered an area between the city walls and the sea where you could sit on the rocks, so I claimed the largest one for myself and relaxed there for a while before going back to the small bay near my hostel for a long swim. Lena and I had dinner in Gundulic’s Square, and then we met the Vikings at an amazing place called Art Bar where they use bathtubs for couches and the metal spinners from washing machines for tables. To get to Art Bar, leave Old Town via the Pile Gate and keep going straight for about ten minutes. Between the weird decorations and the bright lights, it’s kinda impossible to miss.

One of Kelsey's happy places

One of Kelsey’s happy places

That’s about it for Dubrovnik! Ever since my visit I have been plugging Croatia like crazy, so hit me up if you have any questions or comments. There were so many places that I wanted to visit, and I would not hesitate to go again.

Ćevapi kisses,

Kelsey

I’m doing it for the whiskey

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I’ve been doing some thinking today, and a lot of things have sort of hit me over the last few hours, so I want to scrawl some of this out while it’s still fresh on my mind. This post is going to be gross and runny, like undercooked eggs, but as anyone who knows me can tell you, I can’t cook for sh*t so it’s actually very appropriate.

They could also tell you that I am indecisive. I make myself anxious over people and events, eternally worried that I will monumentally screw something up. That’s the way I’ve been feeling about the next step in my journey for the last month or so, because the logical side of my brain is telling me that if I leave Italy for the UK, I’ll have a better chance at finding work since I can stay there for six months. That’s all fine and dandy, but my heart has been crying Dublin’s name for three years. The original plan was Venice first, and then Dublin, but I switched to Florence sometime in April. That was a good decision, and, better yet, it was the right decision. I’ve found some amazing opportunities here in Florence, and I’ve met some unforgettable people. I absolutely do not regret choosing logic for my first stop. But this time?

This time I’m choosing my heart.

Dublin is not the smart choice. I can only stay in the country for 90 days, and the only person I know would be 80 miles away in Belfast (also he’s a rude leprechaun who doesn’t know how to answer emails, so there’s that). It won’t be tourist season, so the chances of finding a cafe or hostel job would be greatly diminished. Every advantage points to somewhere in the UK, and I spent all day making myself physically ill over this decision before coming to a realization: every objection I had stemmed from fear. Fear of failure, fear of running out of money too soon, fear of royally screwing things up by making a hasty decision, and yes, I’ll admit, a decent fear of leprechauns (but only rude ones who don’t know how to answer their emails).

And then I had a second, even more profound realization: that’s sort of the point of this whole experience. It begs for a leap of faith, a great big middle finger dedicated to logic and fear. The step I took to get to Florence was so much more terrifying, and it worked out better than I ever could have expected. Yes, things could absolutely go all to hell and this could be just a really freaking stupid decision, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m choosing to be brave and reckless again. In October, I’m going to get on a plane bound for Dublin. I’m going to take that wild leap of faith, and these words will be echoing in my head: “What if I fall?”

“Oh, my darling, what if you fly?”

Pasta kisses, my dears.

Kelsey

The Dalmatian Coast: Split and Hvar

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You could make a pretty strong case that Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast is paradise, and you’d get no argument from me. A thousand thanks to the beautiful Croatian friend I made here in Florence who convinced me to visit her country, because I had an incredible time! Croatia is outside of the Schengen Territories, so it’s a good stop if you’re worried about overstaying your welcome. American citizens can stay for 90 days without a visa; I was there for a week, and I sincerely wish that I could have made it two.

My first stop was in Split. If you’re arriving by plane, just head out of the airport and you’ll see signs for the city buses. They’ll take you to the main bus station, and there’s a tourist office in the same strip that can help you find your way. Be ready for crowds because Split a big party city with a gorgeous seaside promenade called the Riva, and in the summer it definitely caters to young beachgoers. I stayed in Hostel Ana, which is right next door to Diocletian’s Palace and less than a ten minute walk from the ferry port. It was perfect for my needs, but if you prefer to stay in fancy hotels or luxurious hostels, it’s not for you. It’s cheap, cozy, and ideally situated with a fantastic open-air sitting area where you can lounge and meet other travelers. Next door is Split’s main attraction: Diocletian’s Palace, a sprawling complex full of shops, restaurants, squares, and ruins. It was originally the retirement home of Diocletian, a Roman Emperor who was in power from 284 to 305. I had a great time wandering around the streets, and I discovered little gems like an older couple dancing to live music in the middle of a square, and a guitar player camped out in a particularly beautiful area full of toppled pillars. In fact, I ate my first Croatian meal against one of those pillars, just listening to him play in the soft evening air. I fell in love with almost everything that I ate in Croatia, but that first night I had hot and simple street food in the form of a crocup, this gorgeous creation that consisted of a bread bowl filled with garlic sauce, the meat of my choice, and vegetables, which was then covered in cheese and baked to perfection. While we’re on the subject of food, I also highly recommend a really cool restaurant in the palace complex called Figa. It has indoor and outdoor seating options and sports a colorful vibe, friendly staff, and the best shrimp risotto I have ever eaten.

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Inside Diocletian’s Palace

A quick word on currency: some places do accept euros, but the kuna is the national currency of Croatia. The exchange rate for the American dollar right now is 5.68 kuna for $1; for example, my crocup cost 40 kuna, which only comes to about $7. I like to keep my calculations simple, so I just mentally divided everything by five. It’s easier, and you’re actually paying less than your original estimate. Win-win, in my book.

Anyway, Diocletian’s Palace was wonderful. I really enjoyed exploring it in depth, especially the parts that haven’t been as well maintained because I’m weird like that. I love the sight of all that crumbling white marble, though walking on it is seriously a chore. I don’t know if I just picked the two most slippery cities in Croatia, but any time it rained I took my shoes off and walked barefoot because my feet had better traction, so keep that in mind when picking shoes for this location. One of the best things about Split this time of year is that there are constantly festivals. The cultural music festival was going on when I visited, and the day I came home Ultra started. That means live music every night on the Riva, and I had a great time relaxing on a bench with the sea at my back and a fun band rocking out onstage. If you’re not a fan of big crowds and crazy parties, however, I would avoid Split during Ultra because it’s one of the biggest house music festivals in the world. Honestly, if I had to do it over again, I would stay in Split for one night and then go to Hvar Island for the rest of the time because I personally wasn’t there to party.

Hvar Island is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. I ended up spending most of my time there, which cost me quite a chunk in ferry tickets. Another quick word: the fastest way from Split to Hvar is by catamaran (http://www.hvarinfo.com/travel-to-island-hvar/), and while they’re usually pretty easy to use from the mainland, the ones leaving Hvar are infrequent and often sell out. The second option is the car ferry, which leaves from Stari Grad on the other side of the island. Here’s how you catch it:

  • Go to the main ticket office in Hvar Town, which is very close to where the catamaran dropped you off, and buy a ticket for the car ferry. You have to take a bus to reach Stari Grad, and there will be a list of bus times that match the ferry you need.
  • Once you have your ticket, leave the office and turn right. Go towards the main square in front of the church, and keep walking to the left of the church (there’s a public bathroom right there if you need it). You’ll see taxi stands by a building, and if you go towards that building on your left you’ll see the buses. You want the one that says “Stari Grad” in the front window.
  • Buy a ticket for Stari Grad, but you’re not actually getting off there. The bus may stop a few times on the way to pick up people, but the first major stop will be the ferry port, and that’s where you’ll get off. The car ferry should be the giant ship on the left side of the port, and while the ride is exceedingly smooth, it will take about two hours to get back to Split. The absolute best thing about the car ferry is that it runs late; the last one leaves some time after 11:00 pm.

Hvar Island just….defies words. If you walk around the port and keep going, you’ll find all sorts of public beaches. Walk far enough and there are resort-style places with sand and drinks and fancy changing areas, but the first ones you come to are rocky, free, and much more interesting in my opinion. Navigating them is a little tricky, but slow going should see you through. I lucked out and found a perfect spot that was tucked into the rock face a bit, so I could lay my things out and gently make my way into the water. There are plenty of sunbathers around, but since I am a delicate British flower (and I’m secretly ten years old, don’t let me tell you any differently), I went straight for the water.

The Adriatic Sea is absolutely ridiculous. That water is the most incredibly clear shade of blue, and it’s so salty that if you let it dry on your skin, you can actually brush the residual salt off. I highly recommend taking goggles, and if you elect not to, at least take a lesson from me and don’t grab sh*t off the seabed that you can’t see clearly. I saw what looked like a white seashell below me and I wanted it, but my contacts made the water blurry. I dove down anyway and reached for it and, as you can probably guess, it definitely was not a seashell. It was a hollowed out sea urchin. WHICH REMINDS ME: Sea urchins. Sea urchins everywhere, so watch out. They’re pretty easy to see, but be careful. I ended up stepping on one as well the next day while walking in the water. But I digress; I survived the sea urchins and frolicked sufficiently in that ridiculous water, and then I thought it would be a good idea to sit up on the rocks, half in and half out of the water. As with the “seashell,” I was sorely mistaken because the water entranced me so much that I sat there for an hour without applying more sunscreen, just staring out at the waves like a dodo. And then I decided to rinse and repeat. I mean, come on; can you blame me?

View of the Adriatic Sea

This view is directly responsible for my lobster legs.

Hvar Town itself is gorgeous, and definitely worth exploring. It’s a party place like Split, but there’s so much more to do in addition to drinking and dancing. Hvar is famous for its lavendar fields, and you can hire all sorts of excursions to take you across the island or, even better, to entirely different islands. On Vis, there is a magical place called the Blue Grotto, not to be confused with a place of the same name in Capri. If you walk around the harbor in Hvar Town, you’ll find loads of tours available. I found one such tour that promised the Blue Grotto, the Green Grotto, and a few private beaches on Vis, so I booked it for the next day. Unfortunately the sea was too rough to visit the grottos, but we made for Vis anyway on a small sailboat crewed by two very attractive Croatian sailors whose names I never caught. I’d like to dub the beefcake with long curly hair Tarzan, and the slimmer blond Terk because he was the one scrambling all over the boat like a monkey (yes, I’m aware that Terk is a gorilla, hush). The trip to Vis wasn’t that bouncy, but by the end most of us landlubbers were queasy to one degree or another, especially the poor Malaysian girls. PRO TIP: if you get seasick, stare at something steady like the horizon or an approaching island, and whatever you do, DO NOT go belowdeck.

We pulled in to this tiny cove full of moored boats and dropped anchor, and then most of us proceeded to jump right off the boat and into that glorious water. I’m not going to lie to you, I hesitated for about twenty seconds. The water was so clear that I could see all the way to the bottom, but something about taking that plunge gave me pause. In the end, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and just—stepped off. It really was as easy as all that. Except then I hit the water and came up cursing a blue streak because it was so cold, thereby cementing my status as a true Southern lady to all my nice new foreign friends. Someone tossed goggles down, and I had a fantastic time snorkeling along the edge of the bay. The middle parts were sandy and boring, but the edges held reefs. They weren’t tropical by any means, but it was amazing to explore such a diverse ecosystem filled with fish, crabs, sea slugs, and plantlife. That’s how I amused myself while most of the others were sunbathing and napping on the boat. Eventually Tarzan and Terk brought out lunch, most of which was delicious (tuna and corn, who wouldda thunk?), though the sardines were a mistake on my part. After lunch the boys seriously tossed all of the plates overboard, explaining that the fish would eat the leftovers and all they would need afterwards would be a swish under fresh water. It was a lot of fun to watch Tarzan and Janja dive for them, especially when they told the British tourist to throw some of the silverware in as well and he threw all of it, so they had to dive down at least twenty feet to pick two dozen forks and knifes off the seabed.

Vis

Vis

Our next stop was at the Laganini Lounge Bar on a different part of Hvar Island. It wasn’t as much fun as the cove on Vis, but it seems like a fantastic place to relax with friends or a loved one. It’s basically a private bay with different levels cut into the rockface, and all of the furniture is made of white driftwood and softened burlap. There are several bars, and a few perches in the trees that you can reserve. As my family can tell you, I don’t do “relaxation” very well when I’m in a new place, so I preferred the journey across the water to sitting still. I let my legs dangle over the side of the boat and watched the sapphire water pass underneath me, and I had a lot of deep thoughts about the open sea and how amazing/terrifying it would be to swim in it. Thankfully, my higher brain functions prevented me from toppling overboard, no matter how curious I was. A stunning sunset was the perfect cherry on the decadent sundae that was my day on the water.

That’s it for my island adventures; tune in next time to read all about the real King’s Landing and how I dodged a surprise wedding. There will also be guest appearances by the Storm God, three Vikings and their boss, a metric sh*t ton of cats, and James.

Pasta kisses,

Kelsey

Il Palio: Sweat and Glory

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Ciao my pets! Today I want to talk about an event that I attended at the beginning of this month, one that I have wanted to be a part of for over three years: Il Palio. For those of you who don’t know, Il Palio is a crazy-as-balls 350 year-old horse race that takes place in Siena twice during the summer, once on July 2nd and again on August 16th. For lots of detailed information about the race and ways to witness the madness, visit this website: http://www.ilpalio.org/palioenglish.htm

The very basic version is as follows: Siena is a medieval hill town located in the Tuscany region. It grew up about the same time as Florence, but since the latter had access to the Arno River it prospered quickly and overpowered its hilly neighbor. Siena is divided into seventeen districts called “contradas” which are represented by certain symbols like the dragon, the she-wolf, and the snail. At each Palio, ten districts compete in a mad dash three times around a dirt track that has been laid down in their largest piazza, Il Campo. As if it’s not insane enough to gallop around those hairpin turns, the entire race is completely bareback. For the uninitiated, this means no saddle and no stirrups. For the truly uninitiated, I’ll just say this: you try holding on to 1500 lbs of galloping horse with nothing but the strength of your legs and maybe a hand in the mane.

When I visited Siena three years ago and heard about the race, I knew that I wanted to come back and witness it for myself, and once I got really involved with horses the following year I became even more determined. So when I finished the new book and had some free time on my hands, I realized that I could very easily take a few day trips down to Siena for Il Palio. From Florence, it’s usually about an hour and a half by train, thought that does vary. To check local times, I like to use virail.com, but I recommend just buying the tickets in the station since the website usually overcharges by a pinch. WARNING: the last train from Siena back to Florence leaves at 21:20 (or 9:20 pm), and you can easily make this train after the race if you don’t lollygag.

The events of the race actually begin June 29th with the selection of the horses that will compete in the race. They start with about thirty and have mini races to test them out, often choosing the most trustworthy horses rather than the fastest ones. I missed all of that because it started very early and I got a little sidetracked when trying to reach the city center. So you won’t make my mistakes, here’s how to get there from the train station:

  1. Cross the street to the mall and start taking escalators once you’re inside, you should use a total of eight. This’ll get you up the hillside.
  2. After the last escalator, exit the glass doors and turn left. You’ll start seeing signs with a bulls-eye on them, but these will abandon you soon enough so don’t get too comfortable.
  3. The street you’re on will connect with the city walls; go right and keep following the bulls-eyes. You can go in the walls themselves if you’d like to explore. You’ll flirt with the walls off and on for several minutes.
  4. You’ll come to this weird intersection thing that sort of switchbacks up a very mild hill; ignore it and go around the corner of the old walls. You should start seeing pretty trees lining the paths in front of you. You’ll pass a big fountain and a decent-sized parking lot. Pay attention for the merchant stalls, and take the very next big street that goes right.
  5. You’ll come to the church of the dragon contrada; you can pop in if you want, it’s quite lovely. Keep following the main road in, and you’ll start seeing signs for “Piazza Il Campo.” Easy as that! When all else fails, follow a tour group or ask directions.

Around lunch time they select the ten horses who will be racing, and then each participating contrada draws lots. Jockeys can be changed up until the day of the race, but once a horse has been matched with a contrada it’s a done deal. Neighborhoods follow their horse through the streets of Siena, cheering and singing songs with scarves tied around their shoulders like capes. I witnessed these parades more than once, and they were inspiring. Siena takes its horses seriously; if a jockey is thrown and the horse keeps racing and takes first place, that contrada still wins. When I was here three years ago in late May (which was nearly ten months after the last race) we visited the stall of the previous winner, and there were still flowers hanging on the door. Oh, and on the day of the race each horse is blessed by a priest in the contrada’s local church. If the horse poops in the church, it’s supposed to be a sign of good luck.

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That afternoon, the first of six trial runs begins. The track is cleared, and the horses are cantered around the track three times to help them get used to it (a canter is a three-beat gait that is usually very fast, but not as fast as a gallop) and to help the jockeys bond with their horses. A ridiculous amount of people attend the trial runs, nearly as many as on race day. While we’re on the subject, you can stand in the middle of the piazza for free (there really isn’t a bad spot since it’s a bit sunken in), or you can pay money to sit on the wooden bleachers or in someone’s window. Being a poor traveler and action-lover, I stuck it out in the piazza and I’m glad I did. When I want to, I can possess the patience of the ages, so I camped out right by the railing on the downward slope, and the pictures are pretty fantastic. It’s a great atmosphere and a bit more relaxed than the actual race, so if you’re in a position to take multiple trips to Siena or you can stay for a few days, I recommend checking out one of the trial runs.

On the day of the actual race, I took my temporary flatmate Douglas with me because I was an idiot and bought a ticket for two adults rather than two individual adult tickets (since I would be making two separate trips). I will forever be in his debt, both for making the trip much more enjoyable and for letting me make back my €17. We arrived in the city center around 3:00 pm and wandered for a bit, eating gelato and dodging all of the crazy people. Since he’d never been to Siena, I suggested that he go visit the Duomo while I camped out in the piazza again. By the way, if you ever visit Siena (which you should do), go to the Duomo. The entire inside is done in stripes of black and white marble and it is to die for.

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Some general tips for race day:

  • Don’t touch the horses. Don’t ever, ever touch the horses.
  • If you want to lean against the barrier in the middle of the piazza, get there by 3:00 at the latest and be ready to wait.
  • Don’t forget water and sun screen, as most of the piazza is in direct sunlight until right before the race, but don’t overdo it because once they close the piazza to clear the track you’re stuck there. You can fill water bottles at the Fountain of Joy, which is at the top of the piazza.
  • Don’t be frustrated when it takes a while for the race to start. You might notice most of the horses gathered in a line, moving and nipping at each other, with one rider pacing back and forth behind them. That last rider is actually the one who decides when the race starts; the moment he crosses the line the race begins, so he’ll wait until his opponents are at a disadvantage.
  • The race only lasts about 70 seconds, so don’t blink or fiddle around for your camera; BE PREPAAAAAAAARED. Sorry.
  • Once the race is over, it’s time to leave unless you’re planning to stay overnight. If you’re facing the large building with the tower at the bottom of the piazza, DO NOT take the exit to your left. This is where the victorious contrada is heading and you can’t beat them. Either take a different path to the right, or wait until the parade  has already passed. Douglas and I thought we had plenty of time, and we ended up being caught right in their path as the horse was coming up, and he was not a happy camper. Between an upset stallion and hundreds of screaming, shoving Italians, things got dicey for a bit.
  • If you do get caught up in the parade, don’t fight it. Just walk along, and you’ll actually make it through the crowd a lot faster.

On the way out, you can pick up a scarf from the winning contrada for about €8, which I think makes a super cool souvenir. To make an awesome day even better, the contrada of the dragon won! DRAGOOOOOOOOO!!

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Pasta kisses,

Kelsey

7 Italian Street Scams and How to Avoid Them

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Buonosera, my dears! There are dozens upon dozens of scams out there in the wild blue yonder, but these are the most common ones that I’ve encountered in Italy, in escalating order of aggression.

  • Of course they’re real

This applies to anyone selling bags/sunglasses/designer perfume. I didn’t think I needed to include this one (because duh) but then I heard a story from a Kiwi about a friend of hers who payed €10 a bottle for “Chanel No. 5″ and I thought I might as well throw it in. These guys are pretty chill and they’ll very rarely chase you down. They prefer to let you come to them, unless you’re cops. Then they run. Ever notice how all of their products are attached to cardboard folders or laid out on bags and blankets? Yeah, that’s so they can scoop everything up and run like hell when the cops show up because it’s illegal to sell those fakes. A whole line of them ran past me today in front of Il Duomo. While we’re on the subject, don’t waste your money on the prints of paintings that they sell. Every city has legitimate artists with quality work (especially Florence) and they deserve your patronage. Do take your time with these as well; I’ve seen scams where the “artist” swears the piece is a hand-painted original, only to come across the exact same paintings in a different piazza. A good clue is if the artist has an easel and a paint set, and he’s actually painting new pieces. Watch for a while and see if everything matches up.

  • The Ciaobella (AKA the Walkers)

These are the men and women carrying jewelry, small statues, and roses. They’re more engaging than their bag and perfume cousins, and typically very friendly. Hence the name “Ciaobella,” because if you’re a girl this will be the first thing out of their mouths. Usually a polite “No grazie” is all it takes to send them away, but sometimes you do have to say it twice.

  • Speak English?

Every city of significant size has a homeless population, some of whom spend the day begging. Florence is no exception, and over the course of a month I’ve noticed that most of them have their specific territories, including in the normal sections of the city. There’s a whole different group that works the tourist areas. They’re typically female and fit the racist idea of a “gypsy,” but whether they’re actually Romani, I have no idea. They dress like a bad stereotype: white skirts, long braids, colorful scarves around their hair. They haunt the main piazzas with plastic cups and pictures of their children, and they’re a bit more pushy. If any of them come up to you and ask if you speak English, the answer is no. And don’t respond in French, Italian, or German either; I met one of these women in Germany, and I made the mistake of saying that I did speak English. She handed me a card with her sob story in all four languages. Just babble something unintelligible and run.

  • The Great Train Robbery

Oh, you thought public transportation was safe? Nope. This one isn’t as common, but it’s there, especially on the regional trains, which they can basically ride all day long with a validated ticket. Some beg in the traditional sense, but most prefer to set pieces of paper in the empty seats explaining that they have six kids at home who are starving because they were laid off/their house caught fire/there was a stampede of crazed raccoons that devoured their crops. They’ll leave them there for about twenty minutes, then come back and collect them. All you have to do is ignore them and they will usually let it go, but one or two persistent women have shaken a handful of coins at me as encouragement. Don’t throw the slips of paper away, because they will get pissed off and go over you to dig them out of the trash.

  • It’s a present

Like the “Ciaobella,” this applies to the people selling jewelry, statues, and roses. If you say no, these people will actually hand you their product and say, “It’s a gift.” I’m dead serious, they will tell you that it’s a gift because it’s their birthday, or because you’re beautiful (that’s my favorite), and if you make the mistake of saying thank you and walking away they’ll follow you and say, “Oh, but my friend, today is my birthday and I am very hungry.” Boom. The rose guys in Rome are particularly aggressive with this one: they’ll follow you and demand €5 for the rose they just told you was a gift. The best advice I have is to flat out refuse to take anything they have. Don’t play around, don’t act coy. I don’t care if you are Giselle Bundchen or Dita Von Teese; that shit will never ever be a gift.

  • The Ticketmaster

Oddly enough, this is the one that I find the most annoying. In almost every Italian train station you’ll find Fast Ticket machines, which are completely automated. They have several language settings, including English, but there are “gypsies” (once again, not sure if they’re actually Romani) who will plant themselves at the machines and try to either guide you through the process or flat out do it for you, and then expect payment for their services. I’ve also seen it done at tram and metro stations, and customers will stand in line for other machines rather than walk up and deal with the women. Be aware of the scam, but don’t be afraid of it. They’re not supposed to be there, and if you want to use the machine you have every right to do so without their interference. Be firm, even if they try to push the buttons. If you waver and let them do it for you, they will expect payment and will hound you until you give them coins.

  • Lay it on me

This one is similar to “It’s a present” but at a whole new level. This particular scam was played on me in Milan. A gentleman in the piazza near the cathedral asked where I was from (as a general note, if you get this question, either ignore it or answer it and KEEP WALKING), and offered me a bracelet from Senegal. I said no and tried to leave, and he actually laid the bracelet on my arm. When I stopped and tried to give it back to him, he took it out of my hand and tied it around my wrist before I could stop him. I gave him a few coins from my pocket (though he tried to ask for €10, yeah, not frickin’ likely) and walked away, only to be stopped by another Senegalais man. He tried the exact same trick, down to the letter, and I had to stick my fingers between the bracelet and my skin and force it off my hand. If anyone tries this with you, either be ready to wrestle it off your wrist or just let it fall. If they get mad, too damn bad.

Obviously, this list is nowhere near comprehensive. Scams vary between countries and even cities, but these are the ones that I’ve witnessed across Italy. I had to learn a hard lesson when I came out here: if I was too shy, I was going to get scammed. Unfortunately a couple of these got me, but I can guarantee that it won’t happen again. The best tip is to use a firm but polite “no,” and don’t be afraid to escalate. In the horse world we say that you ask, then you tell, then you demand. The same principle works here.

Know of a few nasty ones that didn’t make the list? Let me know in the comments!

Pasta kisses,

Kelsey

 

Oh frabjous day!

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As many of you know, I’ve been trying to find some work on the side to supplement my income with no luck. The Florence Academy of Art pays models by the hour (nakedness is optional, you pervs) and that’s been helping, but I was hoping for something a bit more substantial. Then I met Jazzie, a former resident of this apartment, and she told me about an artist who was looking for an American girl to watch his gallery. I went to see Masri the very next day, and he offered me the job on the spot! This man is seriously amazing, you guys: http://www.artworksmasri.com

Anyway, this is a fantastic opportunity and I’m thrilled! I’ll have plenty of down time at the gallery (which doubles as a studio) to write or paint, all while being surrounded by his stunning artwork. Best of all, I’ll have an income for a while. This whole situation is a perfect example of why you sometimes need to sit back and let life do its thing. I was worried about making my money last so that I could stay longer, and as my mother can tell you I voiced those worries more than once! But she reminded me that no matter what, I was living in Florence. No matter what, I had accomplished this dream (with a lot of help) and I was seeing it through to the end. In the middle of one of these worry sessions wherein I laid out all my options for the next few months and tried to pick the most practical one, this opportunity with Masri literally walked through the door.

The moral, my loves? Life is freakin’ hilarious.

Pasta Kisses,

Kelsey

Cinque Terre

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Apparently I’m awful at this whole blogging thing, since I’ve gone nearly three weeks without a new post. If my previous attempts at journaling are any indication, this won’t be the first time I disappear off the face of the Interwebs. In my defense, I’ve been working like crazy on the new book and I’ve written nearly 180 NeoOffice pages in the past two weeks, so first the fantastic news: the first draft of Burning Dusk is done! I swore to myself that I wouldn’t open the document at all today, and so far I’ve been successful at keeping that promise. It still needs a lot of work, but the bones of the story have been laid out and that’s a great feeling, even if there are a few extra fingers and potentially no right foot. I’ll set it to rights soon, never fear.

But I digress; this is primarily a post about my day trip to Cinque Terre. Long story short, those towns are absolutely amazing, but they very nearly murdered me in the most beautiful way possible.

     Cinque Terre, or “Five Lands,” is a stretch of the coast with five towns all connected by paths: Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore. There are some paths that go up into the hills and pass through other towns, but the coastal path is the most direct route, so that’s the one I decided to take. The plan was to walk all the way from the northernmost town to the bottom one over the course of two days.
     I started in Monterosso. It seems to be mostly a beach town, and that water was ridiculously blue. Like, tropical blue. I went wandering for a bit and then found the beginning of the coastal path, which snaked around the cliffside. It looked easy, and I thought the entire thing would be like that. “No problem,” I thought, “I can walk like that all day.” It took about a quarter of a mile before the “coastal path” left the coast, never to be seen again. We totally went up into the hills, and it was insane. So many stairs. So, so many stairs. In a lot of places, even when it was a straight path, it was only about two feet across with nothing between you and the drop down the hillside. Don’t get me wrong, it was totally worth it for the views, but I will never be doing it again. By the time I got to the top and started to generally go downhill, I was the kind of exhausted that makes you nauseous and lightheaded even with frequent breaks and plenty of water. And lightheaded is one thing you can’t be, because the path is so narrow and rocky that if you’re not focused on your feet, there’s a real good chance that you’ll trip. If you’re in relatively good shape, then to you it’s probably just a brisk climb. To heavier individuals like myself, it’s thinly veiled heat exhaustion. Don’t underestimate the coastal path, because it can be brutal.
     Now that my very long disclaimer is out of the way, I can say that the hike itself was gorgeous as long as you’re not afraid of heights. The views of the coast and the ocean are stunning, and the path takes you up through hillside vineyards and past little streams. As an aside, it is my sincere belief that the Italian people can grow anything. Turn them loose in the Sahara and give it five years, and they’ll be exporting world-class wines. They certainly succeeded in turning the ragged hillsides into lush gardens. In fact, it is so beautiful up there that the official name of the coastal path is Via dell’ Amore. Because nothing says “love” like dragging your insensible partner down from those ridiculous stairs.
     Okay, okay. Now I’m done ragging on the coastal path.
     The sight of Vernazza, the second city, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It’s considered the most charming of the cities by a lot of tourists, but I’ll admit that my love for it had everything to do with resting. That being said, it is an absolutely gorgeous town. I picked my way down to it with three goals in mind: more water, a bathroom, and a place to lie down. Thanks to chance I turned down a random street and found a cave built into the hillside. My curiosity was buzzing, but my legs were very nearly about to rebel, so I stretched out beside the entrance and lay down for about half an hour, honestly not giving a flying fart what I looked like. When my head wasn’t pounding quite so much, I went through the cave and found that it led to a secret beach! It was gorgeous, and I wished that I had brought my swimsuit. Instead I took my shoes off and stood in the cold water for a long time, just soaking it up. This beach in particular is rocks, so it’s a little more painful than sand, but so worth the experience. My mother would be very proud of me for not taking a rock from said beach, even though I really wanted to. Instead I took a piece of sea glass, which is an improvement, right?
     I explored Vernazza for a bit, and then took the train to Corniglia because there was no way in hell I was getting back on that path—I mean, because the path was closed and that was the only reason I didn’t take it all the way. Seriously though, the only part of the coastal path that is currently open is the stretch between Monterosso and Vernazza because the cliffside is unstable. Oh, and be prepared to pay to use the path. Ironically, it cost €7.50 for the privilege of sweating on the hillsides and only about €1.10 to take the train between the towns. Yes, Life, you’re hilarious. Anyway, I didn’t see much of Corniglia because when I got there and saw that you had to climb a lot of stairs to reach the town, I promptly turned around and put my happy little ass right back on the train to Manarola. Sorry not sorry.
     Manarola might have been my favorite town. It was gorgeous, with this great little harbor where you could swim, and part of the coastal path ran beside it so I got a great view as I ate takeaway pizza. Going up to Hostel 5 Terre was interesting because it was pretty high up, but thankfully it was an incline with no steps so I mostly survived. At the top was a church and a beautiful courtyard, and you could see the ocean easily. The sound of rushing water followed me all the way up, and when I looked down into a basement level I realized that there must be a bunch of sea caves running underneath the town, because I could see cascading water. When I reached the hostel, the wonderful girl at the front desk pointed me in the direction of the lift, and I almost hugged her, but that would probably have freaked her out just a bit. The dorm rooms were comfy and cheap, though the church bells were a bit loud.
     The next morning I got up and took one more train to Riomaggiore. It might be the steepest of the towns, but the path I took happened to lead me to their main church, and when I walked along that road I had some stunning views of the town and the hills behind it. It’s sad to admit, but this adventure has made me mistrustful. Several times that morning I saw people climbing up staircases, and my first thought was always, “Is whatever’s up there worth the effort?” I know my mother has waited two decades for this to happen, but a good part of my climbing curiosity has been dispensed with. Anyway, Riomaggiore is split into two halves bisected by a cliff, so I followed the higher path around and descended into the second half, which wasn’t quite as dramatic. Riomaggiore probably had my favorite views out of all the towns.
     In summary: Cinque Terre is a must-see. Apparently in high summer (July and August) it’s so packed that you can hardly move, so if you find yourself easily irritated by crowds or heat and you don’t intend to commit homicide on your vacation, you might want to give these months a pass. This is why I’ve recommended that my mother either visit me in the next two weeks, or wait until September.
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Pasta kisses!
Kelsey

Out of limbo at last!

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Today was finally move-in day, and the last four hours have exhausted me. I had to traipse back and forth around this part of town trying to get enough money out of my account to pay rent, but my bank locked everything past a certain amount and then the number on the back of my card wouldn’t work so I had to call Mom but they wouldn’t talk to her because she “wasn’t an authorized person” even though we definitely took care of that before I left sooooooo *deep breath* she left me their international number but that didn’t work either and she had to call back and gripe at them until they raised my limit so I could pay for the apartment. And she did all of this with me yelling in her ear off and on about how frustrated I was with the process.

Because she is the BAMF to end all BAMF’s.

So yes. Once we’d taken care of that, I had the chance to actually unpack! The walls are still bare and I’m missing essential things like towels and soap, but it feels wonderful to have my own space again. In the morning, I have to go down to the Centro Impiego (Employment Center) and register, and then probably spend the afternoon trolling for jobs! If anyone has any suggestions, let me know; I’m going to start with restaurants and hostels, and I can pick up some extra cash modeling for the art schools. Once I have more knowledge about the residency process I’ll let you guys know.